Cassidy patted the horse, and thanked him for his patience. He promised a treat to his steed, which was the only constant in his life, besides blood, bullets, and money. Onward they sallied.

The town of Marion waited, more prosperous than most local settlements. Other municipalities were closer to some gold mines, but it seemed to be a bit larger, to Cassidy. As he grew close, the melody that fouled the air was a Confederate hymn. He brought the horse to a stop next to the sign, which had a Dixie flag painted on the wood. Men, with a little gold to lose, staggered along the street with soft women, ready to fleece drunken fools. Whiskey whispered over still air. Well-cooked were the steaks, and like Hell's own mistress, the perfume of freshly lit tobacco seduced the senses. Dark thoughts, which gnawed at the mind, were buried in the allure of the saloon. Cassidy shifted in the saddle.

He spit on the Confederate flag, though it took a minute to work up the saliva. "I want a steak, bourbon, and a cigarette," Cassidy glared at the music, "and the Grays can go to the Devil." At the other end, the church balanced out the town. Crucifix atop the steeple cut a black cross with the quicksilver moon. It washed him in ethereal light, as he lashed the horse to a post. Jaw popped, teeth gritted; nonetheless, the bounty hunter pushed through the tide of Dixie music and proclamations that the South would rise again.

The Alhambra was the most extravagant building in the township. Rich curtains turned light cast upon the street a warm crimson. Tumult inside caused the fabric to shift, which made shadows sway. Voices rose in good cheer, and sang in drunken abandon. The fiddle player, who made up skill with gusto, played the song at reckless abandon. It went too fast for the singers to keep in time. He returned the beginning again with ease. Despite the ruckus men and riotous women, no one threw a punch, but plenty of beer spilled to the floor. "Hoorah for Dixie!" they shouted in unison, before all downed a beer. Cassidy sent up praise to God, who he doubted, for the brief relief respite from the Southern song. Grateful all ignored him, the bounty hunter moved to an empty table. A young woman, fresh from Ireland, took his order, and the last of his cash. The singing began anew.

"You figure they won," Cassidy marveled at the Southern pride, "with how they're carrying on." He had fought brave Grays, most not much more than boys at the end. It had caused a wound in the country, but certain practices should've never been allowed to persist. Maybe, one day, things would heal, but men would always look for reasons to make Hell on Earth. Nothing would feel better than if the war could be put behind him, he knew, yet General Lance Van Lear's marauders Parson's Raiders had murdered his family. Never could he forgive them, for it would be a lie, though the murderers were dead. One day, he would find the old Confederate commander, but rumors had him surrounded by his most zealous soldiers in Hemlock Hurst.

The girl set the bottle of bourbon down, before the steak dinner. Hard grin softened, and she relaxed. Cassidy thanked her, though his eyes already devoured the meal. Finally, the bounty hunter would have a good meal.

"Are you going to just sit there," a man laughed, but his scowl cramped a scarred face, "or are you going to sing Dixie?"

The knife and fork froze in Cassidy's hand, and he set them down. After a shot of whiskey, blue eyes turned on the man. "I'm not interested," he glanced at the two with him, "and you don't want me to be." The bounty hunter saw he was missing an arm, though he tried to hide it under a loose poncho.

"You fight in the war?" his eyes darkened. His arm was large, and hand thick from hard work.

"I don't think he did, Franklin," the fancy man said, though his clothes were rich once. He had a Southern aristocratic voice, much like General Van Lear. Cassidy found them the most irritating for their faux nobility.

Franklin looked at him, back to his compatriot, "Oh Mason, I bet he has fought." He looked him over, "He has the look of a killer. A Northerner, who is too stupid to stay away from where he isn't wanted," a thick fist struck the table, plate jumped, and Cassidy steadied the bottle. He'd failed those he loved once, and swore to never fail again.

"What do you think, Leon?" Mason's grin widened. "Now, that you mention it," he looked at the other, "I've hired such as him to hunt down slaves." He missed the women owned by his father, and the fear sight of him inspired.

"I never done anything like that," Cassidy's grin turned stony. He turned to Franklin, "but I do hunt men for a price."

Leon spit tobacco, which splatted near the bounty hunter boot. "He looks like a romancer of cattle," he said, and the others laughed. The saloon had gone silent. "Absolutely a Blue," he added to more laughter, though his eyes slid to the lamp, heart raced as flame danced.

"We should take him outside, show him our hospitality," Mason laughed as he strutted towards the bounty hunter.

None saw the move; Cassidy's speed was equal to his accuracy. The revolver pressed against the fancy man's crotch. "Touch me, Boy," he cocked the hammer, "and I send you through that buffalo's ass!" He nodded to the head mounted on the wall.

"You're too yellow," Leon sneered, took a step forward. Image of setting Cassidy on fire pulled him, teased him.

"NO," Mason held up a hand, "he'll do it!"

Cassidy smiled, "Well, smart enough to know when to stop, too stupid to know when not to start."

"All we wanted was State's Rights!" Franklin barked, and others in the room nodded. The rich always had privileges, but the poor had to fight for every inch.

"State's Rights," the bounty hunter returned, "was just poison spit in your ear, so you'd die to serve their ends."